


Ailurophobia: Fear of a Black Hat

by persnickett



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: spook_me, Halloween, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Could John McClane's only fear be ghosts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ailurophobia: Fear of a Black Hat

Matt really had always thought McClane wasn’t afraid of anything. 

He wasn’t the only one. Pretty much everyone Matt knew who had ever met McClane had that same general impression. Warlock sure did. Even Lucy. And if anyone should know what McClane might be afraid of, it would be his kid right?

This widely shared opinion was evidenced by their new favorite – and allegedly hilarious – pastime: making up Chuck Norris jokes using McClane’s name instead.  

Nightmares check under the bed for John Fucking McClane…

Matt supposed it was inevitable once the two of them started chatting that it would eventually turn to his expense. The whole thing had evolved into an even-lamer version of the fortune cookie game. The one where you make every fortune sound dirty by tacking on the phrase ‘in bed’.

…So does Farrell.

      Coffee drinks John McClane to wake up in the morning.  …So does Farrell.

 

      Tastes better than all that Red Bull. 

      (ha…)

 

      Word. No wonder Farrell’s so ‘horny’. 

      (…ha.)

They could go on for days. Sometimes they did. 

In fact, that was probably Lucy texting him right now.

 _hey. tell warlock: John McClane’s tears cure verbal diarrhea AND terminal virginity.  too bad for you he NEVER CRIES._

But Matt’s jury was out on that one. Especially the past couple of days.

_comic brilliance as ever, gennero. log on and tell him yourself._

_nah. I think last time you left us alone in a chat room he was trying to get me to cyber with him. something about wanting to ‘RP’?_

_it means Role Play_

_ew so that’s a yes then?_

Matt left that one alone; let Lucy reach her own verdict. His jury was out on that too. 

Besides, he was too preoccupied – and kind of creeped out – to over-analyze it with her right now. He was thinking about that first thing. The thing with McClane acting weird lately.

It had started the night before last. Around the same time as this weird-ass weather.

**

Matt peered through the rain-washed window, trying to make out McClane in the driveway. He was talking to the other cops crowding the property; flashes of red and blue gleaming off the storm-slick leather of his jacket. He must be soaked through to his impenetrable Kevlar skin by now. 

Matt was drenched himself, and he’d only been out there about ten minutes or so. He remembered pushing his sodden bangs out of his eyes, watching the way the drops of rain bounced off McClane’s naked scalp. Until the water started to bead and form tiny rivulets, dripping off the edges of McClane’s ears, and trickling unchecked down the back of his neck into his collar. Matt wondered what it must feel like, being bald in the rain. 

If McClane’s expression was any indication it felt pretty damn awesome, but then again maybe McClane just always looked like that. Standing there, with his powerhouse legs apart and his majestic eagle’s head held high. 

Storm of the century. Ain’t no thing. 

Matt figured when he got tired of the rain, McClane would just kick its ass. He had shivered and pushed his clinging hair off his forehead again and wished McClane would hurry up about it. 

But that was half an hour ago, and now he was inside, bouncing between the window and his laptop, and giving Warlock the play-by-play.

WAR10CK: old lady next door, wow. did you know her?  
F4RR3LL: not really.  
WAR10CK: shitty though, man. what happened to her?  
F4RR3LL: too many cops for natural causes, but no idea. got ‘ordered’ to come back inside.  
F4RR3LL: weather here is fucking insane  
WAR10CK: pretty bad here too. so where’s Officer Brass-balls then, out in the rain playing tough guy?  
F4RR3LL: that’s Detective Brass-balls to you  
WAR10CK: aw, look at you sticking up for your girlfriend. so you just left him out there? chivalry IS dead.  
F4RR3LL: it’s his job, dickwad. probably just doesn’t want me screwing up their investigation  
WAR10CK: you know, when John McClane stands in a thunderstorm, he doesn’t get wet?  
F4RR3LL: waiting for it  
WAR10CK: the rain gets ‘McClaned’  
F4RR3LL: and? give it up.  
WAR10CK: …so does Farrell  
F4RR3LL:  there you go.  
WAR10CK: FU dude, this sucks without a wing man. where the hell is Brassballs Jr. lately anyway?

It was true, Lucy hadn’t been online in a couple of days. Matt didn’t know how he was going to explain that asking somebody to pretend they were a certain blaster-wielding princess with a space-aged hairdo resembling Danish baked goods didn’t go over so well in most circles. He wasn’t sure it would do any good, anyhow.

That was the first time he heard it. 

There was a clattering, banging noise that sounded like it came from McClane’s basement. Like shutters or something. McClane had an old house, but it didn’t have fucking shutters. And definitely not in the basement.

Matt pushed up out of his chair, sending it skidding halfway across the little office that was also his bedroom as long as he was going to be here, and went to check it out. Warlock could puzzle out exactly what had spooked Lucy on his own, he was a genius after all. 

The basement was dark. Cool, damp air was wafting up the stairs at a rate faster than it should for an indoor space with no wind. The eerie sourceless breeze ran over him, chilling the thin fabric of his t-shirt and raising goosebumps on his arms. Matt shivered and made a mental note to change out of his wet clothes before getting sucked into any Lucy-themed conversations with Warlock when he went back upstairs. 

But first, where was that damn light switch? McClane’s house was old enough to have had the wiring changed a few times; rooms and additions added on throughout the years. It was actually still pretty small though. Post-war must have been an interesting time for real-estate. It had more than enough space for just McClane – and now Matt – but it still had weird shit like doorknobs that were too high because the doors had been taken down and then re-installed upside down, or light switches that turned on a light way further away than the one you expected it to. Or some that didn’t seem to turn on anything at all. 

Matt never would have even found the one he was looking for if the sky outside hadn’t suddenly lit up bright as day with lightning, beaming preternatural bluish-white light through the little ground-level window beside the stairs. Shit. McClane was out in this? Matt felt blindly along the wall where he’d briefly seen the switch as the thunder followed the lightning, rumbling overhead like a jet breaking the sound barrier. 

It took longer than he expected to find the lights – running his hand over the drywall and beginning to think this house could actually move shit around just to fuck with your mind – before his fingers found the smooth plastic. 

Matt flipped the switch and several things happened at once. As he blinked in the yellow, man-made illumination, something in the basement fell over and rolled. A metallic gonging sound like an old can of something – paint maybe. But just before that, Matt could swear he heard an angry, sibilant sort of noise. Like a hiss. 

“Hello?” Matt said, like some idiot frat boy in a horror flick about to get his face eaten by something gnarly. “Is somebody down there?” 

Not a possibility. The place was swarming with cops outside. 

Still. The thunder rolled once more outside the window and the chilly currents of air whispered past again, and Matt made his survey of the basement as quick as possible. 

Of course there was nothing down there. And the can that fell over was Varsol, not paint –  whatever Varsol was – and Matt put it back on the shelf and high-tailed it out of there and back to his computer where he _did_ completely forget to change his clammy clothes. But he couldn’t blame that one on Warlock. 

He got caught up in research. A lot of research. He had no idea a quick search for ‘cold spot’ would turn up so much about ghost hunting. Or even that ghost hunting was a real thing.  

He got so absorbed in infrared nightvision, EMF, mediums and séance, sweetgrass and salt, he didn’t realize hours had passed. He was just starting to read about electrical disturbance when he heard McClane finally come in the front door. 

Matt stopped reading, but he didn’t get up, just listened for the familiar sounds of McClane’s routine. He didn’t do it every night – like, not on paperwork days – but Matt had seen it often enough to know by sound alone when McClane was taking a minute or so to stop Being a Cop. 

He would come in the door, and the first thing he did, before he unlaced his boots or even shrugged off his jacket, was put away his weapon. He checked the safety, popped the clip, and laid it out on the little table in the hallway. Matt wasn’t sure what he was doing, counting bullets or something, but McClane would lean forward over the table, both big palms splayed wide, staring between his hands and just sort of breathing slowly. 

Matt usually made himself scarce for the little ritual. It felt…like an intrusion somehow. Invasive studying of the chinks in McClane’s careful armor. Like spying.

Tonight wasn’t one of those nights though, it seemed. 

“Matthew?” McClane’s voice booming from the hall put the thunder outside to shame, “Where you at, kid!?”

Weird. Where else would he be?

“In here!” Matt called, for lack of a better option. Where was he, anyway – the den, the office, _his_ _room_? 

Matt’s voice didn’t come out nearly as smooth and deep as McClane’s. His throat was dry. He reached for his Red Bull but it was empty. How long had he been sitting here?

Matt turned to get out of his chair and go see what was up, but McClane was already standing in the doorway. 

“Hey.”

“Hey. You been in here all night?” McClane sounded tired, a bit strung out. It was no wonder, if he’d been out in this ludicrous weather all night. 

Matt would have expected him to look like hell, but maybe the ‘drowned rat’ look only happened to people who had hair. McClane just looked kind of...surreal. Supernatural, like something out of _The Uncanny X-Men_. Just standing in his door, dripping water from every inch of his clothes and skin like it was pumping out of his pores. It was seeping out of the cuffs of his jeans and starting to puddle around his boots, as if McClane were slowly melting like the Wicked Witch of the West. His coat didn’t even resemble leather any more – glistening like seal skin, or maybe killer whale. Macerated and soft, it was clinging; rounded and formed over his shoulders and upper arms like it wanted to get to know them in intimate detail.

Matt couldn’t be sure if his eyes were screwing with him from staring at the screen so long, but McClane’s lips might have been slightly blue, too. 

“Man, you look…you know what, I could go for a hot drink. You want something, tea maybe? Do you even _have_ tea?”

McClane raised an eyebrow. Learning to read the man was like learning fucking semaphore. This meant ‘waiting’.

“Oh. In here?” Matt remembered the question now. “Yeah, I’ve been in here. No. Not – not the whole night,” he amended. “I heard something funny a while ago so I went to check it out.”

McClane’s posture shifted under his orca skin jacket. Water that had been pooled in the collar poured out in a little torrent onto the floor. 

“You ‘went to check it out’? You didn’t come get me? Whadja hear? Where?”

Cops. Too many questions.

“It was nothing. Varsol can fell over.”

“Varsol?”

“Yeah. It’s a solvent. Used for paint thinning and automotive de-greasing.” Matt had researched that too. McClane didn’t seem impressed.

“Hey man, it’s _your_ basement. Creepy though,” Matt went on. “There was this really cold – McClane, there was nobody down there, okay. The yard was crawling w…there were Officers of the Law everywhere!”

Matt threw up a hand in exasperation. It was too late to explain. McClane had already disappeared from the doorway and was obviously making his way to the basement to investigate. Matt got up and followed behind him, feeling about as helpful as usual.

“So glad I checked it out,” Matt muttered. “You know, so you don’t have to. I may not be a detective or anything but I AM capab– “

Matt should know better by now. He should be familiar enough with his own irony-score to know saying something like that would make him slip in the puddled trail McClane was leaving in his wake. It was just typical. Typical of recovering from being shot in the knee. Typical of this suspiciously innocent _house_.

McClane turned around swiftly, boot soles squeaking loudly on the hardwood, and caught him by the elbows before he could land on his face. McClane’s hands were still frigid with storm-water, and the bloodless touch to his skin made Matt shiver.

“Thanks.” As always.

“Just…stay put a minute, okay?” McClane’s voice sounded worn. “One of us messing around down there is enough.”

Well that’s what Matt had been trying to tell him. But yeah, fine. And McClane’s basement _was_ pretty small. Matt just nodded his obedience and then when McClane let him go, he hovered at the top of the stairs to wait. 

McClane probably thought he was out of Matt’s sight when he stopped on the stairs to draw his gun and put his back to the wall, effortlessly bumping the light switch to the ON position with a shoulder as he made his way down. McClane had no trouble finding the switch. Clearly this shifty old house really did have it in for Matt.

Matt rubbed at the chilled places on his arms where McClane’s grip had robbed the heat from his flesh and left slippery, wet smudges. It was taking way too long. There were two rooms in McClane’s basement. A laundry room and the...rest of it. Seriously, what could he be doing? And what the hell did he need his gun for?

Matt was about ready to forget his promise to stay where he was. He had already taken the two steps down to the landing when McClane turned up on the bottom step, weapon holstered again, and muttering unintelligibly to himself about ‘damn house’ and fixing things ‘four fucking times already’. He stopped halfway up the stairs to latch the basement window.

Okay so that explained the draft. But not the can of automotive and paint-thinning solvent with a sudden case of wanderlust. _Or_ that demonic, inhuman hissing noise.

Matt researched poltergeists and psychokinesis for another hour or so before he crashed.

**

The second time, Matt didn't hear it at all.

He wasn’t sure what woke him up but when he dragged his eyes open, the light in the hallway was on, silhouetting a tall, robed figure looming in his doorway.

“Kid. You hear that or what?”

McClane. In a bathrobe. Over…were those boxer-briefs? Matt blinked, trying to bring his eyes into focus. 

“Hear what?” He mumbled, sleepily.

 “There was a howling, sort of…could have been the wind.”

McClane’s robe hung open, revealing a wide strip of hard, brawned chest and abdomen. Hell, the man really was a machine. Which, actually, would explain a lot. 

“Howling? Was it the ghost?”

“What? You’re dreaming, kid. That’s alright, you didn’t hear it. Everything’s alright, go back to sleep.”

And with that, McClane vanished from sight again, and the light in the hall went out like he’d never been there. 

Everything was alright. Could have been the wind. 

But Matt was pretty sure he hadn’t been dreaming McClane’s gun in his hand. Again.

Just in case it wasn’t. 

**

The weirdness and overzealous firearms-awareness continued, along with the bizarre weather, in the morning. McClane didn’t look sick or anything, but he didn’t go out to work. 

He just sat at the kitchen table in the morning, cleaning his gun. And maybe that wasn’t all that weird, but after that, he just left it out on the table all day, instead of locking it in the cabinet like he usually did.  

And if that didn’t qualify either, well then Matt guessed McClane was pretty normal the rest of the day. He did everything he usually did; took out the trash, found something to fix (today it was the leaky faucet in the bathroom upstairs), sat on the couch with a file full of classified-looking papers and photographs that made him scowl and grumble irascibly to himself, and generally followed Matt around the house and ‘supervised’ everything he did – from checking his email to making them a couple sandwiches for lunch.

The thing was though, Matt couldn’t help but notice McClane did all this stuff _wearing his badge._

**

By the time evening rolled around, Matt was sure McClane was acting strange. He was… Matt wasn’t sure ‘jumpy’ was the right word. _On edge_ , maybe. And he wasn’t the only one.

Every time he passed the basement door today, Matt had lingered. Not wanting to go down there exactly, but straining his ears for the scratching sounds he could swear were coming from down the stairs, or maybe even inside the walls. 

McClane caught him at it at least three times before he demanded an explanation. Well, not so much _demand_ , as fold his arms across the expanse of his chest and do that expectant eyebrow thing again.

“Just listening,” Matt shrugged. “I’ve been reading up on ghosts and paranormal activity.”

“What? Para...” McClane looked away and shook his head like there was somebody else in the room he could commiserate with. “There’s no _ghost_.”

“It’s just weird, that’s all. You gotta admit that, McClane.”

McClane showed no sign of doing any such thing.

But every time the lights flickered under the onslaught of the lightning, McClane would startle and go on alert, while Matt just froze, and thought about everything he’d read last night. 

And every stupid horror movie ever to feature a stuttering, dying light bulb. 

“They say a supernatural presence can cause electrical disturbances,” Matt said, in his best ‘just saying’ tone.

“Enough with the ghosts. There ain’t no such thing,” said McClane, just a little too sharply.  

Could John McClane’s only fear possibly be ghosts?

“Lightning? Now _that_ might be a problem,” McClane added dryly, and as if on cue, the dark sky outside crackled with white. The lights winked tiredly, but bravely held up their end of the deal. For now. “Welcome to New York, kid.”

Matt made half an attempt at a smile and watched the clock on the microwave flash tauntingly. 12:00. 12:00. 12:00.

**

This weather really was unreal. They were well into the second night of this crap when the notorious Con Ed finally knuckled under to Mother Nature, and the power completely failed, plunging the house into darkness.

Which was, of course, the exact moment both of them first heard it at the same time.

There was a distinct and undeniable scraping and moaning noise from within the house somewhere, and Matt couldn’t see where McClane was, but he knew McClane had heard it too, because the _next_ thing Matt heard was: 

“MotherFUCKER! We are _finding out_. What the _fuck_. Is going on down there.”

**

It looked like Matt was finally going to get to investigate whether he wanted to or not. 

And it was no surprise by now, that when Matt had been following orders and getting the flashlight, McClane had been getting his gun. 

“You know, you can’t take down a ghost with that, you need to fill it with salt.” God, why did he say that out loud? Did he _like_ McClane’s I’m-working-with-children face?

“Fill it? This ain’t a water pistol kid, it’s a P220, alright? You don’t ‘fill it’ with anything but 9mm rounds. Get behind me.”

No problem. Matt could do that.

“Where you getting this salt bullshit from?” McClane was asking as they started to make their way down the stairs. “I gotta take you out to the shooting range, spend some time learning something useful instead of watching too mucha that ghost story show.”

There was a sudden blast of cold air and a loud clatter to their left. Matt nearly jumped out of his skin. 

McClane moved in front of him so fast, Matt almost didn’t see that it was that damn window again. And okay, _that_ was weird. Matt knew for a fact that that window was latched. Saw McClane do it with his own eyes last night. 

“Been meaning to fix that.” McClane said, irritably. “HEY! Don’t shine the light at me, what are you, nuts? I’m blind here. We’re going _that_ way, point it there.” McClane did his control freak thing and grabbed Matt’s arm, posing him how he wanted, like a lifesized G.I. Joe. “That’ll work.”

“Right. Sorry.” 

Matt swallowed against the metallic tang of adrenaline in the back of this throat. Like touching one of those old-school 9v batteries to your tongue as a kid. Just to ‘test’ it.

“Ghost story show?” he asked, pretty much just to break the freaky silence. 

“You know the one –  with those pretty-lookin’ guys driving around in a car, lighting shit on fire.”

“So you watch for the plot, huh?” Matt couldn’t help it. Being nervous shorted out his brain-mouth firewall.

“It’s a pretty nice car,” McClane said, offhandedly. 

Matt thought he would have shrugged if he wasn’t busy pointing his gun and his steely gaze straight ahead, where they were about to round the corner to the basement. 

“Ready, kid?”

Nope. 

Matt nodded anyway, before he remembered that McClane wasn’t looking at him.

“Yeah,” he said.

McClane lunged forward, and when he was satisfied the bottom of the stairwell was free of ghosts or terrorists or malicious trick-or-treating third graders with their dates crossed and a penchant for B&E, he waved Matt forward and then pointed to the corner. Matt knew how this worked. He put his back there, held up the light, and waited for further instruction. 

Not that he needed it. There was another sound, a shuffle and rattle from across the room. McClane held up a hand, telling Matt to either stay quiet or stay put. 

He went with both.

McClane checked the laundry room first, poked his gun behind the door, the entire NYPD deal. Matt couldn’t help but feel it was a little silly. The whole not-a-detective thing aside, it seemed pretty obvious to Matt. Whatever was making that noise was making it in the cupboard at the other end of the basement. 

McClane made a gesture that meant Matt could follow him and bring the light. 

The old cabinet was rattling pretty steadily now, shifting precariously on its rickety feet, one of the slightly-open doors clapping against the casing. It vibrated and rocked like it was about to start shuddering and stalking across the floor toward them of its own will like the yard-sale version of Frankenstein. 

Seriously, this was _not_ fucking normal.

Matt felt his breathing getting shallower as they slowly approached the angry cupboard. When McClane put a hand up to reach for the handle, Matt held his breath altogether. 

Then the door was open and at first, Matt thought there was nothing there.  But then he saw it. Just above their heads. A pair of yellow eyes flared in the beam of Matt’s flashlight; animal and otherworldly.

“Oh, Jesus!”

Matt clutched blindly in the direction of McClane’s shoulder, and McClane spun around, aiming behind them. Matt felt something sweep by him through the air. 

“Did you feel that!?” Matt’s voice sounded too high to be his, and there was a tremor in it. 

McClane didn’t seem too happy himself. He gave a couple breaths, heavy enough to stir Matt’s hair. They were standing close, crowded together although the musty basement wasn’t _that_ small.

“Don’t DO that to me, kid. I’m holding a goddamn gun!”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, nodding. “A P220.” Not that it would do them any good. 

Dammit dammit, why couldn’t he see anything? There were _ghosts_ here, man. Or one ghost. But that was enough. Somewhere in this room was something that could touch him, and Matt was pretty sure if it could touch them it could hurt them, and he must have been looking seriously wigged because McClane wasn’t even giving him shit for giving up sweeping his light around the room and pointing the flashlight _right_ at him. 

He just blinked in the glare, which made it hard to tell but Matt thought he was looking at him kind of funny. 

“You alright?” McClane set one big hand on Matt’s shoulder before he twisted around and looked back over his own. Checking the room out again. But there was nothing to see. It was dark and whatever had brushed by them was either invisible or long gone.

But apparently Matt was still looking like a spaz, because when McClane turned back to him, he started using his Calm the Witness voice.

“See kid, you can’t do that.”  
 _Rest assured ma’am, the situation is under control._  
 _Try to relax, sir, we’re doing everything we can._

“When you do that, I think there’s somebody behind us. Intruders.”

Intruders. Not ghosts.  
 _Move along, people. Nothing to see._

But maybe it was all the same to McClane. The warm hand on Matt’s shoulder shook him a little, moved to the side of his neck.  

“Okay. I’m okay.”

“Okay.” McClane took his hand off Matt’s neck and laid it over his hair for a second, as if he was resisting an urge to ruffle it like a little-league coach. “Listen. Did you see her, which way did she go?”

“She?”

 “Yeah, it’s a ‘she’. Maggie.”  

So apparently whatever it was that was capable of making John Fucking McClane nervous, it wasn’t ghosts. Because he was on a first name basis with them.

But clearly _something_ was freaking McClane out, because he said “alright, let’s check it out,” and then, “stick close.” 

As if it was necessary. Matt couldn’t get out of that basement fast enough.

**

McClane seemed a little calmer once they were back above ground, but he wasn’t done detecting, though. He kept his weapon drawn and made Matt follow him through the kitchen and the living room. He even had Matt aim the flashlight under the bed in his little den.

Upstairs, it was even weirder. They were nearing the top of the stairs when Matt first saw something strange.  It was hard to make out in the dark, but Matt thought he saw movement flash across the hallway. But by the time he pointed the flashlight of course, there was nothing there.   

“Stay close,” McClane reminded him. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Matt said. “And don’t cross the streams.”

McClane didn’t laugh. He just called out: “Maggie?” 

Matt was stumped. Who was this Maggie? And how could McClane recognize anyone from what they had seen in the basement? It was just a pair of scary-as-hell eyeballs. Matt thought of poor old Mrs. Lidden next door and wondered what her first name had been. He struggled to remember if anyone had ever mentioned it in the time he’d been staying here. Could it be Maggie? Maggie Lidden? And if it was her, why would she be haunting McClane?

Matt was so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t notice he was lagging behind in the hall, while McClane was checking his bedroom for Maggie. He was about to pick up the pace so as to avoid another gruff reminder, when he distinctly felt something brush his leg. 

This time he was quick enough with the light, and he saw it. Low to the ground, a long narrow tail whipping out of sight into the spare room, which was mostly full of boxes right now.

Oh no. Oh _hell_ no. A black cat did not just fucking cross his path. Damn, damn, he should have read up on omens. 

What the hell was going on here? Matt wasn’t sure how hauntings were supposed to work, but he was pretty sure that cat was real. Quietly as he could, with his leg being what it was these days, Matt moved toward the door of the spare room, holding the flashlight so the beam pointed down to the floor.

When he reached the entryway, there was a frantic movement in the far corner. Matt stepped sideways into the room, and risked a glance behind a pile of what looked like cardboard boxes under several layers of old coats.

That was definitely a cat. Just a regular, real live cat. 

And it was freaked out. With a capital F-R-E-A-K  O-U-T.

“Hey. Shhh,” Matt said, and the cat hissed right back at him. Okay so he needed to brush up on his Feline. 

“Sorry.” Matt tried to make his voice as soothing as possible. “I didn’t mean it like that. Nice kitty. Don’t like, you know, go for the eyes. Or the jugular. Or...anything soft, okay?”

The cat had squashed itself into the corner as far as it could, but it stopped hissing and was letting him approach without swatting or trying too hard to get away. 

“You don’t wanna stay here,” Matt said softly, tucking the flashlight under his arm to free up his hands. “This place is haunted. And I bet somebody is looking for you.”

Matt had to admit he was pretty proud of his cat-whispering abilities, when he got down awkwardly on his good knee and finally scooped up the trembling animal.

“Come on,” Matt told his new friend, “There’s somebody you should meet.” It was slow going, with the flashlight held awkwardly under his arm and the cat cradled in the other, but he made his way down the stairs to find McClane.

Only, McClane wasn’t around. A few seconds of stomping from upstairs and a quick thundering of large feet down the stairs, and Matt remembered why. Shit.

“Matthew!?” McClane was shouting. “Matt?” He went quiet when he caught sight of Matt’s light in the hall, but he didn’t stop moving. Just barreled right toward him and grabbed him by the shoulders.

Whoa. There was that control freak issue again.

“Where the fuck did you go?”

“Um. Right here?”

McClane did that thing again, where he pawed at Matt’s neck and hair, like he was checking for something. Head injuries maybe. Which, considering Matt’s history around the guy, was probably fair.

Then McClane saw the cat. He just looked down at it and then took his hands away. He went over to the little table by the wall, and he did what Matt had seen – or tried not to see – him do so many times before.  Check the safety. Pop the clip. Breathe. 

Wow. 

It couldn’t be. McClane’s only fear could not be cats. Not even black cats. After the whole ghost hunt they just went on, Matt didn't have McClane pegged for the superstitious type. But he seemed shaky, nervous. 

 “You found her,” McClane said, still staring between his hands.

“Huh?” Matt said, eloquently.

“Maggie.”

Seriously. _Huh_ _?_   “…The ghost?”

“Well, yeah.” McClane looked over at him, still slumped over the table. “I told you there wasn’t no ghost, kid. That’s Maggie, Mrs Lidden’s cat. She must have let it out before she…before last night. And it’s been stuck out there ever since. When the storm started, it probably climbed in that broken window. That cat’s been making all that damn noise in the basement the last two days. Not a ghost.”

Well that made sense. 

“Right.” Again: as always.

“Did you think I was hunting for ghosts? Jesus kid, I was clearing the perimeter. Mrs. Lidden died of natural causes, but there’s been a couple of home invasions in the neighbourhood. You _really_ gotta start watching the news.”

Well maybe not _always_. But McClane was staring between his hands again and there was plenty of time to argue about that later. Right now there were priorities to consider. Matt looked down at Maggie, nestled in his arms. She had snuggled into his chest and was clearly a sweet cat when she wasn’t trapped in a dark cupboard. He looked back up again, at the tight, bunched muscles in McClane’s back. 

Well, it was worth a try.

“So. So what are we going to do now, we’re gonna have to keep her. Her owner is dead, McClane. Poor thing must be _so_ hungry. It’s been…well two days that we know of. But maybe…it could be more, we don’t know where she’s been. You know, I think there’s a can of tuna in the cupboard. We can see if she’ll eat that. And then. She won’t be any trouble, McClane, you’ll see. We – I’ll keep her out of the basement. She can stay in my…with me, in the office if you want. And…“

Matt was just about to make promises concerning litter boxes and hair balls that he was probably going to regret, when McClane said something.

“Wait, what?”

“I _said_ , there’s cream in the fridge.”

That was McClane’s cream. Matt liked his coffee black. With sugar of course. But Matt was suddenly getting the feeling that Maggie here, was going to become a very spoiled cat. 

And Matt was obviously still totally in the dark about McClane’s only fear. Because. He’d seen McClane deal with a lot of shit, and he knew for a fact he’d dealt with a lot of even crazier shit Matt _hadn’t_ seen. So it probably wasn’t all that surprising that it wasn’t cats. But Matt really didn’t think a cat- _burglar_ would rank on McClane’s hink-o-meter either.

“Listen to me for a minute, the cat can stay,” McClane was saying. He was done with his yoga-breathing exercise and was locking up his cop gear in the cabinet. “And she doesn’t have to stay in _your_ room. But the next time I tell you to stick close…you stick close. Alright?”

McClane crossed the hall toward him, and Matt wasn’t sure if it was the first time in history a light bulb had ever literally gone off over somebody’s head. But he _was_ sure, as warm, incandescent light sprang back to life around them, that the infamous Consolidated Edison could not have picked a more embarrassingly-timed moment to start bringing them the power. 

It turned out there was something John McClane was scared of, after all.

“You were _worried_ about me?”

McClane reached out, expertly lifted Maggie out of Matt’s arms, and held her protectively against his chest. Matt let her go. He could use his other hand to turn off the flashlight now. And besides, McClane might’ve stopped doing his come-down act but he looked like he could use a cuddle more than Matt right now.

 “Don’t make a big thing out of it, kid.” McClane scratched softly behind Maggie’s pointy ears.

Yeah, definitely not afraid of cats. Matt was tempted to ask how much time the average Lieutenant Detective spent rescuing kittens stuck in trees, but he was too busy being blindsided by what McClane said next.

“On second thought. Make a thing.”

Butch Cassidy. Go figure. The jokes were too obvious even for Matt to bother with. 

He was seriously considering passing it on to Lucy though, cheesy puns were one of the biggest fish in the McClane gene pool. It would drive Warlock nuts. And he would deserve it for the ‘petting’ and ‘pussy’ jokes, and all the ‘so does Farrell’ that Matt just knew Warlock was going to have a field day with, once he got wind of them _adopting a cat together_ like a pair of old ladies.

“You were saying something about tuna?” McClane reminded him. “Give it a try, and tomorrow we can go to the store and get the proper supplies. Food and litter. A bed…some toys.”

Maggie was going to be a very, _very_ spoiled cat. 

Just to confirm that, McClane’s big, blunt fingers traveled gently down to stroke under Maggie’s chin.  She responded to the caress with immediate and enthusiastic purring. 

And all Matt could think – as he went to hunt up the can opener, and considered _Butch_ and _The Kid_ and just how big a thing he could make – was that he definitely knew the feeling.  
 

  
FIN

 

 

 

 

 ______________

'Snick, October 2010

 

 


End file.
